God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
by ComedyFan2086
Summary: Fiddleford didn't know why he was so nervous about spending Christmas with Tate in the Pines' house. After all, it had only been, what, a year since they'd seen his son last? And nothing had really changed in that time. Had it? Mystery Trio AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, and Happy Holidays! ...Okay, so it's Halloween not Christmas, but it's still the holidays - and what's more holidayish than a Christmas Gravity Falls Special! It will be finished by around the end of November, so trust me, I know what I'm doing...**

 **Anyway, if you don't know, this is in the Mystery Trio AU; specifically part of my own series, called Tabasco Sauce. (Great name, Ella. Thanks, Ella!) It's still unfinished, so don't feel too obliged to read it. It fits just as well in the more mainstream AU. Although nothing on this fanbase can be considered mainstream. Creepy, yes, but not mainstream.**

 **Oh and as always, I don't own anyone in this.**

* * *

Fiddleford McGucket had had some truly abysmal ideas in his time.

Even he could admit this was true. After all, he was on his way to pick up his six-year-old son from the Oregon-California border at ten in the morning, so they could spend Christmas in the house of a man who sets fire to his face because it is "quicker than shaving". Oh man. Maybe it was best to not think about it too hard. Thank God the man didn't actually appear to _celebrate_ anything, since he seemed to create a bonfire simply while walking to the toilet. And Stanley was even worse on a bad day… Luckily, they were out of town for the holidays, so he only had the portal and the bunker full of otherworldly experiments to worry about.

Fiddleford tried his best to clear his mind, as he pulled into the car park of a tiny, dingy motel. He'd arranged to meet Gina and Tate there, because he was (as of now) banned from the state of California, where Tate lived and went to school. The reason for this? One word: Pterodactyl.

As he walked into the lobby, looking around him, he realised that this was the first Christmas he'd be spending with his Tater-tot since the boy was less than a month old and the length of his forearm. Of course, the last six years hadn't been a river of tears by any stretch of the imagination, but this Christmas would definitely be special.

"DAD!" Fiddleford yelped as small hands grabbed his neck from behind, and almost pulled him onto the linoleum floor.

"Hey there, Tate," he grumbled, not quite able to stop smiling. "We really have to talk about your 'hugging' technique, you know."

"I was just _hiding_ ," huffed his son, crossing his arms. He really needed a haircut, Fiddleford noticed absently. His light brown hair was far past his eyes, and wafted slightly when the boy spoke. "You just don't get the joke because you're old and weird." Yes, he'd become well acquainted with Tate's love of hiding from people, after the summer he'd spent at Gravity Falls over a year ago. Needless to say, his heart rate would never quite be the same.

" _Tate!_ " scolded Gina, as she put down his bags. "I'm sorry in advance. He's beginning to develop an attitude, I think."

"Isn't that supposed to happen in the teenage years?" he worried.

His ex-wife smirked. "You got yours when you were twenty-one, just after your spine fell out."

"Not true! I'll have you know I was quite the rebel at college."

"Yeah, right. The weird kid who occasionally put milk in the bowl _before_ cereal, and wore Monday socks on a Thursday one time. You were just too much of a bad boy for me, honestly. Y'know your nickname when you first arrived at Backupsmore was 'The Human Mop'?"

Fiddleford laughed, taking the bags. He still got on pretty well with Gina, even though they weren't together anymore. They just weren't right for each other, and had rushed into things after college because of the pregnancy. Granted, they'd gone through a bad patch during the divorce, what with him setting a homicidal robot dinosaur on her neighbourhood two months after their official break-up, but they'd worked through those issues eventually in the counselling sessions.

"So you've got clothes, pyjamas, enough knitwear to warm Alaska, and bathroom stuff. He has an aversion to brushing his teeth, so be sure to check. Oh, and the EpiPen is in the front pocket of his backpack. Why you should choose to have strawberries during the Christmas period, I don't know. Anyway, you probably won't need all this stuff, but it's-"

"Best to take precautions," Fiddleford finished the sentence with her. "Seriously, we'll be fine. Which one of us here is a lab assistant?"

"Which one of us lives with Mr Weirdyton of Weirdville?" Gina fired back. He feigned innocence.

"I have no idea what you're-"

"Ha! C'mon, I'm not blind. Did you see that 'rainbow trout' that Tate sent me a picture of? Fish are not supposed to have _fists_." Fiddleford was about to retort, when Tate tugged on his jacket.

"Are you done with grown-up stuff now? I have to go."

"I know, sweet-pea, we've just got to do some things before we leave for Gravity Falls."

"No, I mean I need to _go_! Bad."

"Wha- oh! Um, well. Sure! You do still know how, right?" Tate somehow managed to give him a withering look from behind several inches of thick hair. Fiddleford withered accordingly. "Okay, okay. Just meet me at the car - the red one on the far left, okay?" He walked off to the public toilets near the entrance, leaving Fiddleford and Gina standing alone. "You're not wrong about the attitude. Last time he stayed with me, I struggled to get him to say a single word."

"You don't know how lucky you are," said Gina wryly, dumping the last of the heavy bags on her scrawny ex-husband. "But don't worry. You will. But seriously, have a good time. And my kid had better have fun too, or I'll break your arms like twigs."

"Yes ma'am." squeaked Fiddleford. "See you on the fifth!" He stepped out into the crisp morning air, giving a sigh of relief. Even when she was a few hundred miles away, that woman managed to put the fear of God in him. She was second only to the Grembloblin.

The Gremloblin...

The Gremloblin...

"Uh... Dad?"

Fiddleford shook himself back into awareness. He was standing in the car park, next to his tiny red car, with Tate staring up at him. He anxiously adjusted his glasses. He must have gone into his head by accident...

"Are you alright?" asked the boy. "Your eyes were pointing in opposite directions." Oh, lordy, thought Fiddleford. Now even his son was going to think he was a bit of a loony.

He gave a nervous laugh. "Yup, fine. Just got a little distracted there. And don't worry about the eye thing, it happens when I'm not concentrating... Anyway! You ready to start another holiday with your boring ol' dad?" Luckily this seemed to distract his son.

"YEEAAHH!" Tate cheered, jumping into the back seat. "Christmas, here we come!" Fiddleford smiled, and walked round to his side.

* * *

"...So you say there'll be snow? Real snow? Will there be enough to build a snowman? Will it be snowing on Christmas, like in cards? Will it..."

"I'm not a fortune teller, Tate," sighed Fiddleford, as they drove the last leg of the journey. "It might snow, it might not. We'll have to wait and see." Evergreen pines lined the road, and Fiddleford noticed a few whitish-grey slopes on the wayside . He wasn't going to tell Tate though, as he would probably go through the roof with excitement at the sight of _real snow._

Tate suddenly let out a yell. "DAD! I _remember_ this bit! I remember this! The cliffs, they're THERE! You see?!" Sweet sarsaparilla. He was pretty sure he was going deaf in his right ear. Despite this, Fiddleford gave a smile to the small passenger over his shoulder.

"That's right. Not far to go, Tater-tot."

"Will Mr Ford be there?" asked Tate excitedly.

"Nope. He's out of town, having a good time with his brother. Did I tell you about Stanley in the phone calls? About how he came to help us?"

"Mhm. Where'd they go?"

" _They went to go and_ _steal radioactive waste from a plant in Minnesota, so we can power Mr Ford's inter-dimensional metavortex - which, by the way, we are testing sometime next year,"_ Fiddleford didn't say.

"Y'know... I'm not actually sure. To visit family, I guess." He took a right, branching off the main road to a wide track, the pine trees clustering further together.

"That's cool. Would've been nice to see him, though."

"Aaaand here we are!" The tiny red car reached the end of the track. A modest wooden house, relatively new, stood tall over them. Fiddleford pulled the car in line with the golf buggy, and cut the engine. "Just leave your booster seat, but everything else is going in. Care to give me a hand?"

"Not really." Fiddleford laughed.

"Attaboy." He ruffled his son's hair. "Just let me get your bags. Could you shut the trunk for me?" They walked round to the back of the car.

"I can't wait to see the lake again," expressed Tate, smiling. Fiddleford's blood ran cold. The lakeside was awfully chilly that time of year. Covered in ice, he'd bet...

"Um... ahem, I'm not sure that's a g-good idea, Tate."

"Why not? We went all the time that summer." In a different situation, Fiddleford might have found it heartwarming that his son remembered so much about a holiday which was relatively long ago. He sighed.

"Look, we'll talk about it later. Okay?" The boy gave him an odd look, and Fiddleford suddenly felt like his soul was being inspected. Then Tate's face split into a grin.

"Okay, Dad! That's fine. Here, I'll take this." He grabbed one of the smaller bags from on top of the pile, and skipped towards the door. Fiddleford stayed back, feeling a bit apprehensive, then quickly followed. It's always a bit alarming when your child lies to you for the first time, even to save your feelings.

"Can we go in now?" Tate begged, as Fiddleford fished around for the key in his coat pocket.

"Yep, if I just... aha! Right. The heating's on, so it'll be lovely and warm." He turned the key in the lock. "Lovely and warm and-" He was interrupted by the sound of someone yelling indistinctly from behind the door. "...quiet." Fiddleford frowned, and turned to Tate. "Hold on a sec, and get behind me." The boy stepped behind his father, who slowly creaked the door open, peering around the hall. The sound seemed to be coming from the kitchen. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, but he could have sworn he'd checked all the lights were off before he left...

"...all your fault!" A voice said loudly.

"What'd ya mean, _my_ fault?" demanded another - quite similar to the last voice, but deeper and a bit gravelly. "You know that I speed when there's a good song on the radio! How was I to know they'd play Bohemian Rhapsody just when we went past a cop?"

"I wouldn't have let you be the getaway driver if I knew you couldn't control your speed regardless of-" Fiddleford purposefully dropped one of the bags in his arms. Stanley and Stanford Pines (for of course, who else would it be?) paused mid-argument, and stared at their friend with twin expressions of dismay.

"Gentlemen." greeted Fiddleford coolly. "I'd say I'm pleasantly surprised, but that would be lying. Now: why in the name of Sam Hill are you here, when you promised me you wouldn't be?"

* * *

 **Somebody's in trouble!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Next installment of _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen -_ or as the cool kids are calling it... GRYMG! G to the R to the Y to M to the G! Heads up to the first review and favourites! **

* * *

"Fiddleford, you're back early." Ford cleared his throat uncertainly, looking around for something else to focus on other than their furious friend. "Hi there, Tate. Say, you're a lot taller than the last time I-"

"Stanford!" His friend cut in impatiently. "I have been driving for three hours. I am _not_ in the mood to be distracted. Spill."

"Alright, alright. Well to start with, you should know that it is completely Stanley's fault."

"Hey!" exclaimed Stan, throwing up his hands defensively. "I thought we'd been over this, it's not my fault we nearly got booked for speeding!"

"What if he'd looked into your records? Have you _any idea_ how many states you're banned from, between all your secret identities?" The man grinned, as he always did when he though when he was being cunning.

"Not a problem. I have a copy of yours. Luckily for me, you are one boring guy."

Fiddleford pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Wait, wait! So did you actually _go_ to Minnesota? What about... you-know-what?" The two men scowled.

"My pal 'Kid Ka'nuckles' Kumar bailed on us at the last second," Stan admitted. "Our entire plan was depending on him. No point in hangin' around. Never really liked that guy, honestly. Y'know, back in the good times when we shared a cell, he used to try an' make his own home-made bombs to get out. He'd eat five bean burritos in one sitting, hold it in till after light's out an' then attempt to bottle his own-"

"Stanley..." Fiddleford warned. "There is a child in this room..."

"Anyway, long story short, that bit of Minnesota sucks hard." Stan folded his arms. "Seriously, it doesn't even compare to here. It's just a weird town in the middle of nowhere, filled with gullible townsfolk and reclusive weirdos who build their own nuclear bunkers in the middle of the forest." Ford choked. "Sorry, but it's true."

"Right. So now we've got this straight - sort of - we can think about what's gonna happen. I take it you're stayin'?" Stan looked up in surprise at the reluctant invitation.

"Really? I assumed you'd be all-" he put his hands on his hips and attempted a Southern accent. "Dear gawd, Stanley, ah'm sick of all this donkey-spittle!"

Fiddleford scowled. "I sound nothin' like that! And when have I _ever_ said 'donkey-spittle'?" He sighed. "Look, fellas..."

"Hey, Dad?" Tate popped up between the three men, smiling sheepishly. "I don't really understand anything anymore, so I'm gonna go away. Is my Lego still here?"

"It's in your wardrobe," supplied Ford. "Next to the gun."

"Thanks, Mr Ford!" The boy scampered up the stairs, eager to get building. Fiddleford and the Pines twins eyed each other uncomfortably in the silence.

Ford fiddled with his six-fingered hands. "Fidds, we're sorry we put you in this situation. This holiday was supposed to be for you to spend quality time with Tate, and we just barged in and... well. I know a decent motel about ten miles away, we'll come round and visit - only if you want us-"

"Ford!" The man paused in confusion. "You don't seem to understan'. I'd _like_ you to be here with us, for Christmas. It's legally your home, might I remind you. Anyway, this is Gravity Falls; the weirdest place on Earth. Two weirdos like you can't be shot of it for more than two days, tops." Stanford's face broke into an uneasy smile.

"Thanks, nerd," said Stanley genuinely, giving him a pat on the back that could have wiped out the dinosaurs. "You won't come to regret it, I promise!"

"Oh no, I almost definitely will," Fiddleford admitted cheerfully. "For one thing, you've just directed a six-year-old to a wardrobe containin' my working prototype of the quantum destabilizer Stanford was working... on..." He trailed off, as the words he was saying truly sunk in. "Oh... donkey-spittle." Footsteps were heard in the hallway.

"Hey, Mr Ford? What does _this_ end do?"

"TATE, NOOOO!"

* * *

After nightfall (which admittedly came at around half past two at that time of year), Tate was getting ready for bed.

"Sorry I played with your project, Dad. I really didn't mean to."

"No biggie, Tater-tot," Fiddleford assured easily, pulling an old T-shirt over his son's head. "Holes in the floor can be fixed. And the tunnel you made probably doesn't come out anywhere." Except perhaps his friend's secret laboratory. So, hopefully nobody would go crawling under the patio for a long time. "Anyhow, you ready for bed?" He suddenly frowned. "You did brush your teeth, right? Of course you did, I _saw_ you doing it. Alright then, time to get under the covers. Lights out."

"Ahem," said the monster under the bed. "Aren't you forgetting something?" Fiddleford shrieked, and jumped onto the bed, almost crushing Tate in the process.

"Dear God, Stan!" he yelled. "What in t-tarnation are you doin' under there?! You almost gave me a heart attack!"

"We're waiting for the bedtime story, of course," said Stanford, the other monster under the bed. "Anyway, you should have spotted us. You really should get your bed checked for monsters regularly, otherwise they stack up." Tate clapped his hands in delight at the strange conversation his Dad was having with the two monsters under his bed.

Fiddleford huffed. "Fine. But I can't think of a new one, so it'll be one from the archives. About where that weird fluffy weed stuff on trees comes from." He took a deep breath. "I need to get my heart rate back down. So...

"Not that far from here, there used to be a kingdom, and like most kingdoms they specialised in making a certain thing for other kingdoms. So this particular one was renowned for making the world's most beautiful rugs. Nothing like that horrific thing Stanford keeps in his bedroom."

"Hey!" protested Ford in a muffled voice. "I'm sure that rug has special qualities of some kind, like the salesman said! If only I could find..."

"Can it Sixer, I'm tryin' to listen."

"Thank you, Stanley. So when you think about it, people don' think about carpets and rugs too much, even if they _are_ beautiful. So no one would pay much for them, and the kingdom became pretty darn poor. But one day, the king, who was a wise old man with a long white beard right down to his knees, went on a grand tour of the factory..."

Fiddleford never did anything by halves, and that applied to bedtime stories as well. He never sat down through the entirety of the tale, pacing back and forth and waving his hands around. Brief conversations became long dramas, with a multitude of ridiculous voices. Tate and the Pines, who had crawled out from under the bed, listened eagerly as they heard about how the king's beard got stuck in one of the enormous weaving looms, and how his silvery beard was accidentally woven into the rug, making it shine like the moon. Of course, some rich businessman paid his weight in gold for it, and said that he'd pay the same amount for any other like it. By the next morning, every old man in the town was queueing at the gates of the factory to offer their own white beards, at seventy-five cents per inch. The beards were washed, and hung on the trees to dry, then woven into rugs.

When the businessman saw them, he agreed that the rugs were beautiful, but not one of them was a patch on the first. "I have a hundred rooms in my house, all with extremely chilly stone floors, and I'd like a nice warm rug for each one. If you can find even one like that rug you sold me before, I'll pay you my weight _and_ my height in gold."

"It was apparent, you see," said Fiddleford, "that he would take a rug made only from a truly royal beard. The king, who had been snipped out of the weaving loom during the incident, would take a long time to grow a long full beard like he had before."

"What'd he do?" Stan demanded, munching on a toffee peanut.

"I'm comin' to that. Anyway, a couple months later a magician came up to the castle, where the king was moping and trying to grow his beard faster by thinkin' really hard. 'My king,' he said. 'I am a magician, and I know an incantation that will cause your beard to grow and grow!' The king was overjoyed. 'Then do it man, do it!' he cried. 'Let me help my people once more!' So the magician, who actually had a pretty bad sense of humour, raised his magic wand and said these words:

 _"'Grow you beard, grow I say,_

 _Grow by night and grow by day,_

 _Stretch yourself across the floor,_

 _Across the room and out the door!'"_

"And did it?" asked Tate.

"You bet it did!" his father grinned madly. "Before long it was snakin' its way right out of the gates, and tickling the guards! The rug makers, who couldn't believe their good luck, cut the beard, and devoted their entire factory to making these silvery moon rugs. The businessman bought them hot off the press without hesitation, and the people rejoiced, 'cause every worker got a pay rise of three _thousand_ percent. But the problem was, the beard kept right on growing."

"For how long?"

"For many years. And before too long, the businessman had enough carpets to fill all his one hundred rooms, and went away. Of course by then, the magician was gone as well. Magicians have a real nasty habit of doin' that when things go wrong. A few of the rug makers started making a living by being paid to cut the poor monarch's beard hourly, so he wouldn't accidentally trip over himself. Then eventually, the king died. His beard stopped growin' but several hundred miles of his beard remained. The rug makers washed the beards with soap and water, and hung them on the trees to dry out. But of course, they never got made into anything. So that's where they stayed."

There was a burst of spontaneous applause from his audience, and Fiddleford gave a deep bow.

"So what's the moral of this story?" asked Stan curiously.

"The moral of this story... uh... it's not to make business deals with magicians." For some reason, this seemed to make Ford uncomfortable.

"That was a good story, Fiddleford," he admitted, "even if it _was_ woefully inaccurate. One beard is as good as any other, even if the owner is a king. And that plant is in fact called _Clematis Vitalba_ , and has got nothing to do with - MPFF-" Stan clapped a hand over his brother's mouth.

"I can only apologise for him." He dragged Ford to his feet, and over to the door. "Thanks for the story, nerd. This time tomorrow?"

Fiddleford rolled his eyes. "Sure thing. But next time, just stand in the doorway or something? Either way, I'm installin' a trapdoor under that bed."

"You're the boss. Night, kiddo."

The engineer waited for the twins' heavy footsteps to start down the stairs, then turned to smile at Tate, who was now looking decidedly sleepy. "I think that's enough for one day. Goodnight, sleep tight."

"Don't let the bed-bugs bite," added Tate, wriggling down into the duvet. "Night, Dad."

* * *

 **Please read and review! Double points if you can tell me where that particular story comes from!**

 **Clue: it was _paw_ -ly written. Get it? _Paw_ -ly written.**

 **...I'll go and lie down in shame now.**


	3. Chapter 3

**So how was everyone's Halloween? Mine would have been better, if it wasn't for my weird family. I mean, they're usually quite tolerant. Come out to them? "No problem, the world is new, it's the way you were made to be! We completely support you!" Admit that your favourite sweet is Parma Violets? "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!, YOU FREAK!" Like I said, mental.**

 **Anyway, onwards to Christmas!**

* * *

At nine in the morning Tate woke up slowly, and sat up in his bed, stretching. Today felt... fresh. Fresh and white.

At once, he ran to the triangular window, and stood on his tippy-toes to see if there was any snow on the trees. There was nothing - not even birds. Sighing in disappointment, he pulled on his flannel dressing gown over his Mickey Mouse pyjamas and went to see if there was any breakfast to be had.

When he padded downstairs, his dad and Mr Ford (or was it Mr Stan?) were discussing something over coffee. Tate shrugged. They were probably talking about work stuff.

"We can't just barge in there, Stanford. They might not even know about it," pointed out Fiddleford. He had dark circles under his eyes, and yawned involuntarily now he'd finished speaking.

"How can they _not_ know about _that_?" Ford asked in confusion. "There have been three disappearances in the Pink Palace mansion since 1921, _all_ of them children of fourteen or younger. The last one was in 1960! There has to be something in that house!"

"Well yes, but since then the place has been split up into apartments. Even if it's some kinda poltergeist, it might've been frightened off by all the new people. Anyway, the landlady doesn't let people with kids rent in the place. I've checked." Tate's foot hit a creaky floorboard. His dad started slightly, then smiled. "Hey, Tater-tot! Up for breakfast?"

"Mm-hm." Tate nodded his head emphatically.

"Alright then, I can do pancakes or toast. What's it gonna be?"

"Pancakes. Please." Fiddleford nodded, and reached for the leftover mix from yesterday's batch. "Hey, Dad? Why does Mr Ford want to go to a palace? And why is it pink?" He opened his mouth to answer, but Ford got there first.

"It's not a palace. It's actually this big place in Ashland, not far from here. There's been several cases of children-" He trailed off, as the boy's father gestured frantically for him to stop talking. Oh. Actually, telling Tate that kids went missing in their beds in Oregon might not be a great idea after all. "-erm, children... having a great time and not being kidnapped by evil spirits at all." Ford laughed uncomfortably, going slightly red. "Yeah, they have a whale of a time over there. We should go visit next time you come over. But not now." Fiddleford face-palmed. Ford was abysmal at telling lies; there was _no way_ his son would fall for that.

Tate shrugged. "Okay. I guess." His face then brightened, as three pancakes made their way into his line of vision. "Thanks, Dad. Hey, what are the black bits?" They stared at the blackened parts of the pancakes, which had been cooking on one side a bit too long.

"Magic chocolate," lied Fiddleford easily. "I know it doesn't _look_ like much. But if you concentrate _reeeaally_ hard, it'll taste exactly like 'smores." Ford stared, amazed. How do people do it? he wondered enviously, watching as Tate eagerly scraped the "chocolate" off of the pancakes, and ate it in one go. The boy screwed up his face in disgust.

"Maybe I'm not thinking hard enough," he decided. He closed his eyes, apparently trying to levitate.

"Does this not feel the tiniest bit cruel?" whispered Ford to his friend.

"C'mon, it worked with the broccoli in July, didn't it?" He couldn't argue with that. Tate had chewed that stuff for twenty minutes trying to turn the vegetable into cotton candy, before Fiddleford could persuade him to swallow.

Just then, Stan walked in, yawning widely.

"Mornin', Sixer. Mornin', Fiddlenerd and Nerd Junior." He suddenly paused, looking at Tate again. "What's the matter with him? Given him the Talk already?" Fiddleford was about to answer, when Tate suddenly gave an excited shout.

"I got it!" he cried joyfully. "It tastes like marshmallow!"

"Don't talk with your mouth full," his dad advised quietly. "Your pancakes are gettin' a little chilly." Tate attacked the rest of his breakfast, as Stan joined them with a cup of coffee.

"Was someone walkin' around last night?" He asked. Stanford and Fiddleford looked at him. "Might've been just me. Kept me up 'til three am, whatever it was. Either of you heard it?"

"Nope," answered his friend, a little bit too quickly for Stanley's liking.

"I didn't hear anything," Ford confirmed. "How about you set up a camcorder in the hallway? Could be a stray cat or something. Either way, it'll be good for your video diary."

"Yeah." Stan finished his coffee in one impressive gulp, and stood up. "Fun as this is, I'm otherwise engaged. I'm goin' out today."

Ford rolled his eyes. "Susan again? It must be really serious this time."

"It's _literally_ the second time we've been out on a date, Poindexter," snapped his brother defensively. "I'll admit it, she's got class, and it'd be nice if we kept goin'. But that doesn't mean it's _serious_."

"I'm not sure 'out' is the right word either," Fiddleford pointed out. "I mean, she owns the only diner in town, so..."

"Well actually, we're going to the lake. Do a bit of ice skating, to speed up the Stanley Pines magic. Oh calm down," he added, as he saw his friend stiffen. "It's about minus infinity degrees outside. It'll be more solid than one of your pancakes."

"Rude." Fiddleford's shoulders relaxed a fraction, and he managed a smile. "Have a great time, Stan." The man grunted, and went to get his coat.

Tate tugged on his dad's sleeve. "Dad? Can I go too, pleeease? I promise I'll..."

"Absolutely not. I'm not having you gawkin' at Stanley and Susan trying to strangle each other on the ice." The boy pouted.

"What _are_ we gonna do today, then?"

"Stanford, any ideas?" Fiddleford asked helplessly. The house's resident genius scratched his chin in thought.

"Well. I went out and got some decorations from that mall they opened. Of course..." he winked at Tate. "We'll need something to decorate, before we can do anything."

"Hmm." Fiddleford looked from the living room to Stanford. "I think I smell what you're steppin' in."

His son grinned. "Ew," he said.

* * *

"Okay, this was not what I meant..." grumbled Fiddleford, trying to blow some warmth into his fingers and failing.

He had assumed that Ford's mind, nimble and supposedly advanced thing that it was, would automatically jump to the easiest and safest option - to hire Rolanda Corduroy, or even young Danny, to cut down a smallish tree for them to buy and then decorate in relative comfort. However, this was not the case.

They had been out for four hours now, armed with the axe which they used to chop firewood, to find a tree suitable for their cause. A legendary Christmas, Ford had argued, warranted a truly legendary tree to put goodies under. Just as well Fiddleford had insisted on extra layers, since a coating of frost was still on the grass. It was also getting a little dark.

"Do you think this one's big enough?" Ford asked Tate, squinting up at the ginormous pine tree. The pointed top was far above their heads, and the trunk was about the same thickness and density of an oak.

Tate stroked an imaginary beard, and considered it. "It'll have to do," he said seriously. Fiddleford threw his hands up in the air.

"And how exactly to you plan to drag this home? Or into the house, for that matter! This is completely impractical!"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Fidds."

"You could _make_ a bridge with that monster!"

"Hey, great idea! Thanks Dad!" Fiddleford gave a strangled growl of frustration, and stalked off in search of some holly. Ford really was annoying when he had an idea, and the pedestal of "cool uncle" he'd been placed on had only made him even more insufferable than normal.

Ford looked around. Where had Fiddleford got to? Typical; the first sign of hard work pending, and he ran a mile. No wonder people at college had dubbed him "the Human Mop"... Rolling up his sleeves, he gripped the axe tightly with his six fingers, and buried it in the base of the enormous pine tree. Tate looked on, hopping from foot to foot in an effort to keep warm.

"Now what you want to do - is get an angle - on the axe so that the - bottom is shaped like a cone," Ford grunted, as the axe bit further into the base. Wood chips went flying. "Also - when it falls down - you have to - step out of the way. You need to shout, 'TIMBER!' when it falls down."

"I can do that," offered Tate.

"Good man! Now if you look, I've hit something hard. It's probably a knot or something. So I go around to the other side, and start again." Ford walked around the large trunk, and struck it with the axe once again. "This is usually harder," he observed. "I wonder why the wood is so sof-" He'd spoken too soon. His implement hit something rock hard, like the last time. It was almost... metallic? He dropped the axe on the frosty grass, massaging his fingers.

"Mr Ford?" Tate looked up at him. "I think... the tree is crying." Sure enough, if Ford pressed his ear up against the bark, he could hear muffled wailing. It was as if people were trapped inside.

Before he could consult his journal, something stung him on the ear, hard. "OUCH!" He jerked his head away from what turned out to be a concealed shuttered window. A tiny Lilliputtian woman furiously waved her fist at him, and shouted something very rude which Ford later instructed Tate to _never_ repeat to his dad.

"Begone from my inn, you ham-fisted gulliver!" She yelled. "Get 'em, girls!" At once, a tiny door opened, and about twenty miniscule Amazons raced out, firing tiny little arrows at Ford and his young charge. An spear the size of a cocktail stick embedded itself in Ford's thumb.

"It tickles!" giggled Tate happily.

"Agreed," Ford said, grabbing him by the arm. "But even so, I think we should leave before they start discussing insurance. Come on!" Tate grabbed their axe, and they ran.

They bumped into Tate's dad, who was carrying a pile of holly leaves and berries to stick around the house, meaning that he winced every time he moved. He looked them up and down. "Where's the tree? Why does Tate have the axe? And Stanford, why do you look so much like a cactus?"

"I'll explain later," Ford promised, picking the spear out of his thumb with a grimace. "Probably. We, um... decided that the tree was too big after all."

"At last, some sense! I've got an idea. Here - catch." He yelled in pain, as the spiky leaves landed in his uncovered arms.

Fiddleford showed them to a very small fir tree about a hundred metres away. It was a few inches shorter than Tate. "See? Much more Christmassy! Also, it's a baby tree. So if we plant it outside the house, it'll be even bigger for next year! It'll last us for years before it dies." His son still seemed on the fence about the whole thing, so Fiddleford sneakily added, "Y'know, I'd say that in tree years it's about the same age as you, Tater-tot." He had won.

"Yay, I have a tree brother!" yelled Tate, wrapping his arms around the tree. "We're almost twins! I can't wait to tell my friends!"

"Impressive," Stanford agreed, taking the axe. "Not many people can say their sibling can clone themselves."

"He _can_?!"

"Yep, and we'll have a long talk about that when we're nice an' warm in the house," insisted Fiddleford. "Now let's go get a shovel and a bucket."

* * *

Two hours later, Rudolph the Christmas Tree took official residence next to Stanley and Stanford Pines' house, and there it stayed for many years to come.

Tate helped hold his new brother upright as Mr Ford filled in the hole for the roots, and then had hot chocolate with his dad and Mr Stan, whose date had gone well. Everyone went to bed tired, but happy.

* * *

 **That's all, folks! If anyone wants me, I'll be in the corner, eating thirty packets of Parma Violets.**


End file.
